


Hope

by darkwolf76



Series: Demons of the Dreadfort [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), game of th
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Hope, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-08-26
Packaged: 2018-12-20 00:03:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11909025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkwolf76/pseuds/darkwolf76
Summary: Bethany Ryswell has no desire to leave her home and to become a Bolton bride. Yet duty calls and matches have been made, so all she can do is hope.A story set in the "Defying Demons" universe but can be read as a stand alone.





	Hope

**Author's Note:**

> A prequel to Defying Demons about Hazelyn Bolton's mother and the little known second wife of Roose Bolton, Bethany Ryswell. Can be read as a stand alone. Please enjoy and leave a comment to tell me what you think!

"You are to marry Roose Bolton," Lord Rodrick Ryswell informed his daughter casually. He leaned back in his desk chair with a small smile on his face, as if it was good news.

Bethany stood in the middle of her father's solar, staring at him in shock. She opened her mouth to speak but no words came. The young woman brushed her dark brown hair back behind her ears and swallowed loudly.

"Does he not have a wife?" She finally managed to ask with a frown.

Lord Rodrick looked up from the letters he had started thumbing through while waiting for Bethany to react. "She died," he waved his hand as if the ending of another woman's life had been nothing more than the elimination of a bothersome pest. Bethany's frown deepened.

"You should consider this a great opportunity Bethany," Roddick raised his brows at his eldest daughter. His lips turned upwards under his greying beard as he said proudly, "You will be Lady of the Dreadfort and the wife of the second most powerful lord in the North. That's something you can more than handle," he chuckled fondly.

"I don't want to leave the Rills though," Bethany said with a stubborn scowl, but she stared at her father imploringly, just willing him to change his mind. She didn't want to leave to leave her family's lands, with its wide open, rolling hills and vast herds of magnificent horses.

House Ryswell was famous for breeding the best horses in the North, and in Bethany's opinion, possibly the whole Seven Kingdoms. She loved horses. The young woman tried to spend all the time she could spare in her family's stables among them. Truth be told, she felt more at home among the herds than she did around people.

She loved riding her mare Cyll through the the rolling hills of the Rills. When she hopped on the horse's back and broke into a gallop, she felt like she was flying. Her soul felt free as the wind whipped her hair about and the blur of green hills rushed past. She didn't want to lose that freedom.

Rodrick frowned sternly. "Bethany," he pinched the bridge of his nose, "Don't act childish. You knew this day would come. You can't stay here forever. You're five and ten now, lass. It is past time for you to marry and grow up."

"But must I go to the Dreadfort?" Bethany inquired quietly, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. Besides leaving the Rills, Bethany did not eagerly leap at the match because it was with House Bolton. Every northern child was told the stories of the Red Bolton Kings of old. They had battled the Starks for control of the North for centuries. The way they tortured they're enemies had a legendary status.

Cruel and ruthless, the Boltons had flayed their enemies alive for millennia and then proudly displayed the skins in their halls like hunting trophies, morbid reminders of their power and wrath. Despite the fact that the Starks had outlawed the the practice of flaying centuries ago, rumors ran rampant among the small folk about how the Boltons still flayed their enemies in the dead of night in dungeons deep beneath the Dreadfort and hung all the hides in a secret room. Even though those rumors probably weren't true, that cruel legacy lived on in their sigil and words, a flayed man and the saying "Our blades are sharp."

Rodrick noticed his daughter's rising ire and rose from his desk. He walked over to where his daughter stood rigid and placed his hands firmly on her shoulders. "Lass, I would never arrange a match that would make you utterly miserable. Lord Bolton is still young, not even ten name days older than you. He has much wealth to keep you comfortable and a vast house hold that will be yours to command."

"I don't want to marry into House Bolton," Bethany told her father frankly. Tears gathered into her brown eyes as her whole body trembled.

Lord Rodrick frowned sadly at the girl and shook his head. "I'm sorry, but the match has been made. Your betrothal will be announced at the feast tonight, and we will be traveling to the Dreadfort for your wedding next moon."

* * *

Bethany sat on her bed, staring blankly at the grey wall of her bed chamber. "Come now child," her septa Elena urged her, "This is all a natural part of growing up. Lord Bolton is young and you will be well provided for. Also, just because the tales about his ancestors are grim doesn't mean he is."

Bethany glanced at the septa who bustled about as she tried to pack her charge's possessions for her journey. Bethany loved Elena. The woman arrived at Rill Hall from the Reach just before she was born born. Her mother, Hazelyn Bracken, had requested a septa to help instruct her children in the Light of the Seven and to mind the tiny sept that had been built for her after she had come from the Riverlands to marry Father. 

Bethany smirked. She had always preferred the old gods to the new, and none of her siblings had taken a shine to Elena's tales of the seven either. Yet they all loved Elena, Bethany most of all, so they prayed to the new gods sometimes for her sake. The septa had been like a mother to them since Lady Hazelyn had died of a fever a many years before. She had a quick wit and good sense about her. She always had a word of sound advice for every situation. She was one of the wisest people Bethany had ever met, even though she had not quite reached her fortieth name day. She was down to earth and practical instead of stuffy and stiff. However, as much as Bethany loved her, due to her vows of chastity, this was one situation Elena would never understand or be able to give advice on.

"Bethany, stop with your brooding and help me pack your things. A mind occupied with practical matters has no time to worry," Elena chided Bethany, a steely glint in her eye. Even at five and ten, a woman grown, Bethany dare not cross the septa when she got that look in her eye.

The young woman tried her best to put a smile on her face and rose to help Elena prepare for her journey. There was no sense in worrying about the inevitable. She was going to marry Roose Bolton and become Lady Bethany Bolton no matter what she wanted.

* * *

Bethany had refused to spend the journey to Dreadfort cooped up in a wheelhouse. If she had to leave her home to become Lord Bolton's bride, she would do so on horseback. Not to be out done, her younger sister Barbrey rode along side her sister on her own steed. The two sisters, on mares of red and black, trotted ahead of the main Ryswell party at a brisk pace.

Barbrey, a fierce little thing as fiery and vivacious as the red coat of her horse, talked non-stop about the upcoming festivities and her sister's future. Bethany, as calm, serious, and solemn as her black mare, silently moved towards her fate with her head held high, trying to keep her tears at bay. No one but Elena would be coming with her to the Dreadfort. Besides her loyal Septa who had told her father she would not leave her charge, even if it meant serving as a maid, she would be completely alone. Barbary's incessant prattle about the future she didn't want was not helping.

"I can't understand how you can feel upset about this! I would give anything for Father to arrange such a match for me. You're going to have so much wealth and power, and a young husband too. Your castle will be huge. I would be kissing Father's feet if I were you. You didn't even have to work for this marriage. If I ever want to have a decent husband, I'm going to have to-"

"Would you shut your bloody mouth!?" Bethany snapped harshly. She wheeled her horse around to face her sister. "Do you think I wanted any of this, Barbrey, to leave my home to go live in a strange keep called the _Dread_ fort and spend the rest of my life with a man I don't know!? You'll be lucky if you find your own husband. Find one you like before father picks one for you." She glared at the younger girl angrily. Barbary just stared back at her in incredulous shock. Bethany shook her head and pulled on her horse's reigns, turning Cyll around to canter towards the back of the Ryswell party.

* * *

The Dreadfort loomed tall and menacing on the bank of the Weeping Water. Bethany shivered as its dark shadow passed over the approaching party, blocking out the weak warmth of the northern sun. She locked her gaze onto the open gate ahead as the Ryswell retinue entered the village right outside the castle walls. She couldn't bare to look upon the Bolton subjects who had gathered at the sides of the road to catch a glimpse of the girl who would soon become their new lady.

She dropped back to ride beside her father as they made their way through the tall wooden gates of the keep. She schooled her facd into an expression of solemn dignity and held her head high. She would not let her betrothed see a timid cowardly girl the first time he laid eyes on her.

Everything around the courtyard seemed dim. The members of the Bolton household stood in their places, their heads bowed in respect. At the head of the line receiving line stood the Lord of the Dreadfort himself, Roose Bolton. Neither tall nor short, thin nor muscular, Roose appeared average in everyway, not all the fearsome or imposing brute Bethany had imagined. He had dark brown hair that fell to his shoulders and a pale, clean-shaven face composed in a neutral mask. The only feature that really stood out were his eyes. Pale grey eyes met Bethany's brown ones in a sharp, studying gaze. She tried to reflect his calm look but shivered under his scrutiny. Those eyes seemed to pierce her very soul.

Lord Rodrick trotted up to where Lord Bolton stood and pulled his horse to a halt. The rest of the party soon followed. He dismounted his steed and turned to help Bethany down from hers, but the young woman, still angry at her father and trying to exert her independence, vaulted down from Cyll herself. Lord Ryswell waited as the rest of the party dismounted and his younger daughter and sons joined them. Barbrey, Roger, and young Rickard took their places behind their father and sister while waiting to be received by the Lord of the Dreadfort. Lord Rodrick came up to the younger Lord Bolton and exteneded a hand of friendship. "My lord, thank you for receiving me and mine in your keep. I hope this visit will mark the start of a close and long standing alliance between our two houses."

Lord Bolton reached out and took the visiting lord's offered hand in a firm shake. "It is my honor to host you in my house Lord Ryswell. We are to be kin soon enough after all," he responded in a quiet but firm tone. His pale eyes glanced past Lord Rysewell to the girl at his side.

Rodrick stepped back and gestured for Bethany to approach. She came forward and dropped into as low and graceful a curtsey as she could manage. Roose Bolton appraised her with his haunting eyes. Bethany had told herself that she would not appear weak in front of her future household and lord. So, despite her twisting stomach, she rose without shaking and met Roose's gaze head on. She raised her chin in challenge and stepped forward, offering her hand. "My lord, it is a pleasure to meet you."

A glint of approval flashed in the Bolton lord's grey eyes and a ghost of a smile flickered across his thin lips before he once again donned his blank mask. He grasped her fingers and brushed his mouth briefly across the back of her hand. His lips felt dry and cold Bethany noted. "My lady, the pleasure is mine. I welcome you to my home and hope you find it comfortable here."

The rest of the formal greetings were dolled out, the Ryswells each accepted the bread and salt offered by Lord Bolton, and then Roose directed his guests into the keep.

Fixing those icy eyes of his on Bethany again, the corner of his mouth raised the tiniest bit as he offered his arm. "My lady, may I escort you inside? I have had the staff prepare the best guest chambers for your family. I'm sure you all would like to rest before we feast at sundown," he said in quiet voice.

Bethany blinked in surprise at his smile, biting her lip at the new development. Had she had made a good impression then? She couldn't read him at all, she didn't even know what she thought of him. Slowly she nodded, giving him a slight smile of her own. "Of course, my lord. Thank you."As duty dictated, she grasped his stiff arm and walked alongside her betrothed into the keep.

Her father had spoken true when he reassured her that Roose Bolton was neither ugly, old, nor crude. He was young, and while not handsome, he had perfectly decent looks. He seemed calm and courteous as well.

Yet, there was something off about him. He acted so cold and formal, and his smooth face had betrayed no emotion save that brief smile. And Bethany had watched the small folk and staff carefully during the initial introductions. They all seemed to scuffle about with their shoulders hunched and heads held down, as if they were afraid of something. The young woman noticed as the party proceeded though the the halls of the Dreadfort that while no human skins adorned the walls, the stone had a dark and grimy appearance. The air held a chill and smoky scent filled the halls. 

Bethany didn't know what to think of Roose Bolton and his halls. She couldn't say whether the life before her in this place would be filled with contentment or grief. Yet she placed her hope in that brief flash of approval on her future husband's face and the closed doors and turns in the corridors leading to unseen parts the keep. She clung to the hope that deeper within the hidden depths of her cold betrothed and his grim keep, she would discover something kinder, gentler. She clung to the hope that if she looked deeper, she would find a brighter side to this strange man and place and that with them she could maybe have a happy life. She prayed to the old gods of her northern father and the new gods of her southron mother with all her strength that she could be happy here, and that this place would become her home and not a prison.


End file.
